I don't go into a lot of detail about my career because, as though I were in the CIA-- I deal with people and the nature of my work is confidential. But today I've got enough anxiety about what must be done to blog about it.
First of all, I've been WOEFULLY negligent in my day duties for the past month or so. I've been outright addicted to the internet, trying to deal with the production of the latest installment of my hobby. I don't want to go into detail, but while I was volleying comments about sexuality herein (nothing like sex talk to blow up the comment count! :-D ), I was also ironing out some details about the hobby and discovering some discouraging viewpoints and reviews about me as a person elsewhere. This would be another reason why it was so awesome that Coaster Punchman stepped in here to assist my process with words of honesty and e-mails of support. While one aspect of life was sliding down to a gloomy place, a decades-old inner conflict was getting resolution. That discourse was far more than just what I needed. It was survival.
Thanks again all.
But during that, it was like the anxiety was driving me away from my responsibilities at my day job. It was as if I couldn't focus on anything academic. The only thing I could successfully do was engage my clients in therapy. When I could focus on them, I effectively disappeared. All my issues and self-questions were gone. But when I came back to my computer and the need to do paperwork, I hit the Internet Explorer button instead of the Word button. The night job was also extremely useful too. It gave me something to do physically, instead of whittling away the evenings in endless loops of self-doubt, self-loathing, self-flagellation, or just plain old fury. And there's still nothing quite like the gratification of handing off a well-made drink and watching the customer do that orgasmic moan of pleasure. I'm usually one breath away from crooning, "Yeah, baby--you like that?"
So that was my past month-plus. Now this week, I have a client who's last surviving parent has died. And we have to tell that client today. After much deliberation for the past few days, the client's sibling gave us permission. Remember, our clients are developmentally disabled. Old school definition; "Retarded."
But this specific client is a basket case about 25 weeks out of the year, in three-to-four week cycles. Screaming, crying, defiant--for no discernable reason. This client gets a notion to do nothing for weeks at a time, and you just go with it, or wear earplugs as the screams echo throughout the mountains of New Jersey. I kid you not.
So of course, during a nice 4-week run of smiles, laughs and cooperation with all the activities we provide--the client's last surviving parent ups and dies.
Goodbye client's good mood.
T-minus 1.5 hours and counting until blast-off to Screamersville. And if you hear sonic-pitched wailing emanating from the northeastern point of New Jersey, we're not killing anyone. It's just the way our client mourns death.
Envy me, people.